Who Is This Grissom Guy, Anyway?
by scullyseviltwin
Summary: Who is Grissom to each of them? Each member of the night shift is examined... and the real Grissom, well he's revealed. COMPLETE
1. Catherine

Quick thanks to the LA ladies in the chat tonight... and the other couple who weren't. Special thankieness to Sara who beta'd a bit of this... and to Marlou who totally attempted to nurture this idea when I was stoned out of my mind on allergy pills. **This is a WIP

* * *

** "Mom, I need you to watch Linds for an hour or like," Catherine paused, stabbing her earring into her ear. "Like... six." Catherine spoke briskly into the phone, scrambling to locate her other shoes.

"No, I got called in, and Eddie's... well, I think he's out. He's not here," she said hurriedly knowing full well he was with another woman or at a bar. In an attempt to look presentable she clipped her messy blonde hair back out of her eyes. She galloped oddly into the kitchen and grabbed a banana; it was nearly rotten. "Mother, look, I-" A harsh breath passed between her lips. "Yes, right after. Love you, bye." A pause. "Yes! Jesus! Goodbye!"

Running down the hall, she opened the door to the last room on the right and quietly stepped in. Catherine paused at the foot of the small bed and watched as her daughter's chest rose and fell in sleep. Hoping Lindsay was having _more_ than sweet dreams, she walked over and planted a soft kiss to her forehead. She hated to leave her, but she had to. 'Fucking college,' she mused as she clicked the door delicately shut.

Leaving the quiet sanctuary of her house, Catherine jumped into her battered Ford and sped off towards Tropicana. She absolutely loathed the fact that even at two in the morning there was still rush hour-like traffic congesting the streets. As much as she truly loved Vegas, she hated all the damned traffic.

She narrowly but expertly dodged a Dodge Dart, ironically enough, and just missed running a red light. Veering into the parking garage at the Palms, she flashed her badge and found herself a handicapped space near the elevators; it was only when she got out of the car that she realized she had taken up not one, but two parking spaces. Rather than let it irk her, she became amused by it and with one last glance at her car she jogged to the elevators and stabbed the 'up' button insistently. 'Crime scene, here I come,' she thought and tapped out her impatience with the toe of her boot.

There was a strange spring in her step as she made her way down the plush casino carpeting towards the man who had called her. Even as she walked towards him she sent him softly concealed death rays with her eyes. "Look at you! Making my night, Gil!"

'Or morning… damn it all…'

Gil Grissom turned towards the voice and chuckled at her. "Sarcasm noted and promptly ignored." Turning back to the body on the floor, he handed her a sheet of paper with what he'd gathered thus far. "Were you sleeping?"

Catherine perused the list and took in the scene, "Hmm, barely." She pulled her camera tight around her neck and snapped off a few overalls. Crouching down beside the body she began taking shots of the neck and head, paying special attention to the exit wound through the body's left ear. "So, how was the seminar?"

She rocked back on her heels to glance up at him. "Gil?" He wore a far-away, delighted look on his face which Catherine immediately noticed. "Good time, then?"

Grissom smiled just a bit more and Catherine quickly stood, catching him in his mirth. She punched him quickly in the arm and laughed. "You dog!" she exclaimed, drawing the attention of the officers down the hall. They both turned their backs to the men.

Catherine bit her lip and shook her head; she couldn't believe it. "You got laid!"

Gil's mouth fell open and his face tinted red. "I did no such thing!"

Knowing that look all too well, the younger CSI simply arched a brow and nudged him with her hip, "You lie."

"I do not," he promised petulantly, both hating her for questioning him but finding boyish delight in the ambiguity of the situation.

Placing her hands on her hips she taunted him, tested him. "Then tell me what happened!" she insisted. Gil toyed with the idea, running a hand through his hair.

"Tell you what," he began. "I'll let you buy me a beer after we finish here."

Cath smiled and pulled the camera from where it resting against her chest. "If I'm buying, you're logging in the evidence afterwards." Grissom nodded and crouched over the body, it's stench beginning to permeate the air around them.

"Small price to pay, I suppose."

They smiled at one another and went about processing the scene.

Efficiency seemed to be the motto of the night and between the two of them they had managed to catalogue the entire scene in under five hours, a new personal best for a crime of such magnitude. Adhering to his part of the deal, Grissom took the load of evidence back to the lab and began the seemingly tedious process of logging it in. Catherine, on the other hand, stopped by home to make sure that everything was alright.

She found her mother smoking a cigarette on the front stairs, puffing contentedly, watching the neighborhood wake up. The older woman watched as her daughter approached, tossing the cigarette aside. "So" she called, not caring how loud she was at such an early hour. "Who's this Gil Grissom, again?"

Catherine smirked as she side-stepped her mother. "He's my boss... and my friend mom..." And with that she checked on Lindsay, found Eddie asleep on the couch and left once more, telling her mother she'd be back in an hour and a half.

The one thing that Catherine found really _wonderful_ about Las Vegas was that you could go out for drinks at eight o'clock in the morning and not be called a lush. Such was the scene at the bar Catherine had decided on; tourists ran rampant, most of them teenagers, simply staving off the previous night's hangover my getting drunk again. There were some older folks, tube socks peeking out of their Birkenstock sandals. Neither she nor Gil cared; here they served cheap Bud and always had some sort of ruffian sport on the television.

The two of them had taken seats at the bar, both content with their Budweisers and the easy conversation that had flowed between them since they'd sat down.

They were three beers in before she'd remembered what they had gone there for in the first place. It hadn't been her intention to haggle him about this new female who seemed to have him just a tad wrapped up in his own world... but she couldn't help herself. She was starved for new gossip, even if she did have to keep it to herself. 'Gossip is gossip,' she reasoned.

Gil, he was a great friend; he wasn't very open, but he always told it like it was, and she truly admired that. She'd been lacking people like that in her own life.

"Now," she began, smacking her lips after taking a pull on her beer. "Tell me about this woman... that you didn't sleep with." A slight quirk of her lips told him that she did indeed think that he had gotten laid while in San Francisco.

Gil pressed his hands around his mug and smiled in that way that men are prone to do when they meet an amazing woman and realize how amazing it is that a chance meeting allowed them to connect with such a stunning person... or that's what Catherine thought... anyway. "I _didn't_ sleep with her, it was nothing like that."

Cath nodded, knowingly mocking him. "Good looking?"

Gil thought about that one and tilted his head to the side. "She was... pretty... not stunning... but..."

"But?"

Gil smiled and finished off his beer. "I look forward to working with her again."

Catherine laughed, tossing her head back, a barrette falling to the floor unnoticed. "You got her number? She got yours?"

"And my email," he said quietly, his lips grinning around the rim of his mug.

Catherine's mouth dropped open and she continued to laugh. With a sharp fingernail, she prodded him in the bicep. "Smitten!" She claimed, finishing off her beer as well. "So smitten!"

He leaned a hand on the counter and attempted to glare her down but could not help the tiny smile that teased his lips. "Or not."

"Oh, oh, you so are," Catherine pointed out, grabbing his arm. "Tell me more, what's her name? What does she look like? Is she from San Francisco or-"

Gil cut her off with a wave of his hand and slid off of the stool. "Thanks for the beer Cath, you should probably go home and get some sleep..."

With that, he was gone and had left her to pick up the check, just as she had promised.

A wave of fresh, autumn air assaulted her face as she stepped from the bar into the subdued morning. Catherine felt revitalized in such a wonderful way; it had been months since she had been able to go out on her own, without Eddie or Lindsay involved and it felt nice to be normal for a moment... as normal as one could be by getting tipsy as the sun rose.

Driving home, she decided that she would make it a bi-weekly occurrence, talking with Gil. Not only was it good for her gossip nerve but it was good for her soul, and his.

Catherine waltzed in the door at ten o'clock to Eddie making pancakes, chocolate chip. It was the weekend, he always made pancakes. She walked up to him and pecked him quickly on the lips, tasting beer and ash, but feigning delight in her disgust. She kissed Lindsay on the head and went to get a bottle of water out of the refrigerator.

On the way out of the kitchen to change, Eddie caught her by the arm. "Who is this Grissom guy, again?" Of course he had forgotten.

Catherine smirked. "Don't worry Ed, he's my boss... and a very good friend."

TBC


	2. Warrick

Woot to Marlou like for rizzle.

* * *

Warrick Brown took a swallow of the water that sat in front of him. The ice in the glass tinkled pleasantly, trying the situation even more as the situation he was in was far from pleasant. 

The man across from him had a large glass of what Warrick could only assume was vodka. Sammy Hardenbrook was rarely seen drinking anything that wasn't thoroughly fermented and expensive. Though the man had a taste for the finer things, the gaudy rings adorning his thick fingers pegged him for what he really was: a thug.

The man was tall, built and just a bit chubby. He looked like someone's 'favorite uncle Milton' with his quick smile and set of pristine white teeth. Warrick knew better, but that was only because he'd known Sammy for the last five years. Warrick checked his watch and waited for the other man to speak; no one spoke to Sammy before Sammy spoke to them.

"I hear you're getting out of the game, kid." It was indeed vodka that he was drinking; the scent trailed on his breath as he leaned in to speak to Warrick.

Warrick shrugged with a roll of his shoulders and took in the brimming casino once more. "I'm just... not as prime as I used to be. Got better things to do man." Warrick lifted his glass and spoke around the brim. "You know that."

A flash of anger passed over Sammy's eyes and his fingers tightened around the glass. No one told Sammy anything he didn't already know, so telling him 'you know that' was like a slap in the face.

"Sorry man, I don't know where my head's at."

Sammy nodded and gulped another mouthful of vodka. "Well, for your sake, you'd damn well better find it, kid."

Warrick nodded and bit his lip. Suddenly, his pager went off, inciting the larger man to heave an irritated sigh and slam a fist down on the table.

'419. Call Grissom.' the message read, and Warrick placed the beeper on the table to root around in his pocket for his cell phone.

Sammy reached over and scooped up the device, reading what it said on the display. "What the shit is a 419, and what's Grissom?"

"Who," Warrick replied and located his phone. "One second, man, I promise." He got up from the table and moved to the restroom, hitting 1 on his speed dial. The call connected almost immediately.

"Warrick, we have a 419 out in the desert, off of 15, how quickly can you get here?"

Warrick glanced at his watch and looked towards the door. "Maybe... forty minutes, if I break a couple of laws."

There was a smile in Grissom's voice when he replied. "Fine. Good. See you then," and with that, the call was ended and Warrick was tossing water on his face. There was no way to get out of this situation gracefully; instead, he chose to break the news to the mobster-like man quickly and take his exit.

"I'va, I've gotta go, work calls." Warrick explained, draining his water and sliding a handful of chips over the table.

Sammy smiled and finished off his drink, running a chip over his knuckles slowly. "I thought this was work, mister Warrick Brown," he taunted, slowly managing to get out of his seat. "I thought this demanded attention."

Warrick rolled his eyes and held out his hands, not knowing exactly what to say. "I'm not saying it doesn't. I'm just trying to ease out gracefully is all, not leave anyone wanting, you know?"

The man stared at him for a few moments and Warrick wondered if he had backed himself into a corner. There was nothing he would like less than having his legs broken for no other reason than upsetting this man; that would be far too ironic to handle. "Besides, Davis over at Mirage owes me a brick, I'll be done in a week and everything will be back to normal."

At that, Sammy smiled. "As normal as it can be without you around. We'll miss ya kid." Holding out a hand, he took Warrick's, shaking it.

"This Grissom guy, he's helping you out with all this, I take it?"

Warrick nodded, "He's my saving grace right now."

"Well, I hope you can stay afloat, there's so much shit in this town it's hard to swim clean, know what I'm saying?"

The mixed metaphor was not lost on Warrick and he chuckled a bit, nodding emphatically. "Yeah, he'll keep me on the straight and narrow."

They walked together through the rows of slots to the lobby. Sammy patted him on the back one last time. "I know I gave you a lot of bull over the years, but I'm really one big softie. Go easy on that boss of yours, it's kinda my fault you had to give him so much shit."

Warrick nodded and backpedaled to the door. "If Grissom's anything, he's reliable..."

With a tilt of his head, Sammy asked what the hell that meant.

Warrick laughed, fishing the keys out of his pocket. "Means if I don't shape up he'll can my ass."

And with a wave, Warrick left the gambling establishment and made his way to the crime scene. Grissom was speaking with one of the officer's when he arrived at the body. Grissom was gesturing wildly and laughing with the man; the officer walked over with him to the body and he noticed Warrick.

"Ah, never mind officer, my guy's here," Grissom said, patting the man on the back as he turned and walked off. "Lucky you, Warrick, you

get to help me lift the body."

"Joy," Warrick commented dryly, hunching down and maneuvering his gloved hands under the body's shoulders. "Why don't we wait for the coroner, again?"

"Because," Grissom grunted, "He's lying on his gun... and wouldn't want that to accidentally discharge into, say, my foot."

Warrick nodded and chuckled, lifting the man's shoulders as Grissom reached underneath to grab the weapon. "There we are," Grissom said and tossed the gun in an evidence bag. Warrick watched as he went about his process.

Grissom noticed the other man staring at him and rocked back on his heels. "What?"

"Nothing," Warrick said, shaking the litany of thoughts from his head. "Just thinking, you're a good guy Grissom, thanks."

With a little quirk of his lips, Grissom told his CSI to get to work.


	3. Nick

He couldn't stop sweating, he just couldn't. He'd been showered and dressed and worn his thin gown well. The doctor had advised him to take short sips, but he was gulping down the ice water greedily and if it would flush him of strange heat pressing on him. He couldn't cool down, he couldn't seem to feel normal; god, he graved normal.

His mother had sat by his bedside for the first five hours of his stay. She held his hand and stroked his hair, and he felt selfish and catty when all he could think about was being alone in the room. He'd been alone in the box for hours and now he wanted nothing more than to be alone again; he wanted everyone gone.

Nick swore he could still feel the phantom warmth of Grissom's hand through the plexiglass and thought if he held his hand up to his face it would be pink with the heat; why couldn't he cool down?

He didn't need much, just had to, had to sleep or, or something, just had to stop crying. Anything to stop crying.

His mother came back in the morning, brought him muffins and magazines and a game boy. He was only going to be there for one more day, but she insisted that he have some distractions. "Take your mind off things," she insisted and grasped his hand again, stroking his skin as if it were a comforting gesture. Gillian Stokes' hand felt cold and clammy, not at all reassuring and Nick truly wished she would just let him go and sit there... stop talking.

The fact that she kept bringing up the fact that he wasn't supposed to be thinking about what had happened just made him think about it even more. He turned the scenario over and over inside his head, like the flip of a coin, seeing himself outside, seeing Sara and Catherine and Warrick and Grissom in the box.

Grissom...

The phantom warmth was back again, radiating from his wrist outwards. The oddest thing...

Gillian spoke of the weather and the Rangers. Baseball always put him at ease, and they were able to discuss ERAs for long minutes without interruption. The two of them watched the news over bad hospital food and Gillian left the room to take a call from her husband. He'd been on the phone all day setting their financial records straight once more. Nick wasn't surprised; Bill Stokes craved order. He'd been in once to check on his son and had left in a few short steps after dropping a kiss on his son's head.

Nick didn't feel his father's lips, he felt an acquaintance's parting token gesture of reassurance. But none of the words that came out of his parents' mouths did anything to assuage his feelings of displacement. Not like Brass's had, not like Grissom's had.

Those stayed with him. Something in Grissom's eyes...

Savior, perhaps. Nick supposed he might very well leave the hospital feeling in debt to the man; he knew he shouldn't, but he probably would. And something, somewhere in the back of his mind had him wondering if Grissom wanted him back more than his own father had. Then again, his father had never been much of a father in the first place; Gillian had raised the boy while Bill was out 'doing his damned job'.

Nick had come to terms with that; he loved his dad, but not like he should and he knew that.

The nurse came in to turn out the lights and take the trays away. She woke up Gillian who had fallen asleep at Nick's side, as if her vigil would somehow make him feel more at ease. He doubted anything truly could in that moment and as his mother kissed his cheek and squeezed his hand he wished he were at work. Anywhere away from the inhospitable sterility of Desert Palms.

When his mother left and the lights were turned off, he thought the shadow might steal some of the heat from his body; he hoped for it.

He wished Grissom would be there when he woke up so he could let him know just how much... how much what? All he'd ever wanted to do was make him proud, show him that he was capable and thankful for all that he had been given. He still had time to, Nick realized as he shifted from his back to his side.

Sleep was dreamless that evening, but Nick could have awoken that morning from a nightmare and felt no different. Something was missing, stolen in his sleep and he felt empty upon greeting the dawn. The sun was brighter, cascading over the white walls of his ugly room.

He shifted in his bed, wanting very badly to leave the hospital and remember what colors were, but when he turned, he came face to face with the pensive face of his father. There was a smile that wanted to be released, one of relief, but Nick felt it inappropriate. Somehow simply looking at his father made Nick think that the entire situation was in some way his own fault, as if he'd sealed himself in the box on his own and cried out for help.

"How are you feeling, son?" Bill spoke low and gravelly, and Nick knew in that moment that he hadn't slept the night previous. Some part of him found delight in that, his father staying awake, worrying about something that had to do with him, the son.

Nick cleared his throat and spoke, "I'm fine, dad."

Bill smiled a tight lipped smile, which was quickly wiped from his face when sobs overtook him. "I'm sorry I haven't been around more..." And he enveloped Nick in a hug but Nick couldn't find it within himself to feel remorse for the man who raised him. Shrouded in his father's arm, he heard the faint click of someone entering the room; Bill Stokes immediately retreated.

Gil Grissom walked into the room and shook hands with his father. Nick wanted to say something, wanted to tell him all of the things he'd felt and thought the night before but he couldn't seem to get his mouth to form coherent words.

And unlike his father, Grissom smiled genuinely and told him all he needed to with his eyes: it's okay, I understand. He always understood in his own way.

Grissom grabbed Nick's hand, the same one that had touched his through the glass, the same one that had been weighed down by phantom warmth. And he told him to take time, as much time as he needed; they all needed a few days to process what had happened in their own minds. He gave him the team's sentiments and had squeezed his hand once more before bidding both he and his father farewell.

When Grissom let go, the heat was gone from Nick's hand, but he was replaced with a contentedness, knowing that there was someone who appreciated that way in which he had grown.


	4. Brass

_Thanks Marlou. Gin... what WAS I thinking?

* * *

_ He's probably not your cup of tea; he's not really mine, to be honest, but we're friends so somehow I guess something worked out.

The thing about him is... he works too much. He works _all the damned time_ which I'm sure is) factor numero uno why he doesn't have a social life. I'm pretty much... yeah, I'm his only friend. Not that his team doesn't consider him a friend, I'm just not sure if he considers them back is all.

The first thing that we bonded over (and yes we bonded, is that so difficult to imagine?) was scotch. This was way back, fifteen maybe sixteen years ago. He was new to the city, I could tell; he didn't have even a hint of a tan. He walked through the doors of CSI with fucking snow in his hair and I wasn't so sure how welcome a northerner would be in such a sunny city. But he was on night shift; figured, right?

Anyway, it was a bottle of scotch; I brought it to his office and we both ended up tipsy enough to warrant a cab ride home. We talked about a lot of stuff in the two hours that we just lounged in his office. I talked about my divorce, my daughter and he... well he muttered about his ex-fiancé and why he'd left her in the great white north. Better off for him, a woman who cheats once is liable to cheat again... as I know all too well. Anyway, back to Grissom, the man didn't even accept the ring when she tried to give it back to him.

I think that's what got me. Before I knew it we were meeting in bars after shift, ordering up a bottle of Jack and just being out, out in the world. It seemed the both of us had allowed our exes to control our lives for far too long.

Football, we watched some football but mostly baseball. He was a Cubs fan, Cubs and Red Sox and I was a Yankees fan but hey, we worked past that. There were chips and beer and normal guy stuff and I was happy to be able to trade war stories with someone who was as brashly cynical as I was.

Bottom line, we had. It was a good time, still is.

Over the last few years... well, we've both changed, that much is obvious. I've become more open (_I'd_ like to think so, anyway) and he's... uh, he's essentially closed himself off to the world. He's stopped having drinks with Catherine with the exception of the odd outing between the three of us. But yeah, I know why.

Gil's been distracted; he didn't like being torn from work to begin with but it's gotten worse. It was difficult for him to share anything with me, even if it was the box scores of last night's game. Over time he cracked a bit, but still... when he came to me with personal issues I knew it had to be big.

So, when he came to me regarding his inability to get over a certain someone I was uncharacteristically surprised.

"I uh, it's just not..." Gil said, trailing his finger around the rim of his glass. He hadn't touched his whiskey and I was worried; it was the good stuff.

I sat back; apparently our very own Miss Sidle had him wrapped around her pinky and didn't even know it... or maybe she did. No, she wouldn't do that. Besides, after the way he had treated her I was surprised she was still interested. "What is it? Can't get her out of your head?"

He just looked at me, sullenly. "It's not that. She's always... been there, I think."

What could I do? I just nodded. I mean... I'm not an idiot and I'm obviously not blind. Their not so subtle glances were, uh, well... not so subtle, as I said. Everyone knew that Gil had a thing for Sara just like everyone knew Sara had a thing for Grissom. I'm not eloquent, so sue me. Moving on, Gil was in a pickle. See, when love finally smacks you upside the head after nearly fifty years of hiding, it tends to disorient.

Maybe he didn't wanna talk about it...

"I don't uh, want to talk about it."

Who's good? That's right, I'm good. Either way, he had to talk about it. It was clearly eating him up inside. "Drink your drink and see how you feel after that." So we just sat side by side and sipped our whiskey and made absent-minded comments about the game on the television.

An hour later, he was sufficiently tipsy and ready to spill it all. Alcohol, one of the most powerful social lubricants, gotta love it. "Well, you asked her here, didn't you?"

He nodded and hung his head; god, he was torn. This was both amusing and damned sad. Funny how women could do that to us guys, funny and depressing. But hey, considering what we do to them... "Yeah, I did. And, jesus Jim... I..."

"Listen, I don't know much about dating since well, I haven't had a date since... god I can't even remember when. But let me say this... after you did what you did to her, and she's still sticking around... it's not for the job, that's all..."

He was silent, waiting for me to fix his problems or something. "But hey, just, you know, take her out on a date. Tell her how you feel, something like that." Come on, this was the best I could do!

Gil scoffed at me and finished his whiskey. He was shaking his head; he was either pissed at himself or just piss drunk. I figured it was probably the former, so I let it go. "I can't just take her out on a date Jim, it doesn't work like that."

"And... why doesn't it work like that?" A valid question, right? Yes! Thank you!

"Because," he began, finding absolutely nothing to back that up with. "Because... it doesn't."

I left it there, no need to push him into that gray area where I scare the shit out of him and he finds it difficult to speak with me any longer. Besides that, I had to piss. So I went to the bathroom and when I came back there were four more drinks sitting on the bar in front of him; he pushed two my way.

So instead of talking about it, he drank his feelings down until he couldn't feel feelings anymore. Does that make sense? Well it did to me. That's what we did for the rest of the evening, we got drunk. Eventually I cut him off, I had to. He would have drank himself unconscious with the way he was knocking 'em back.

So I poured him into a cab around two and told the cabbie to take him by Sara's place. Not where he wanted to go at all, but where he needed to be. God, he was going to be pissed at me.

But hey, what are friends for, right?


	5. Greg

Emo... is not dead. I just need to get that out of the way; Emo is not dead. It really has nothing to do with what I'm thinking about but...

Having said that and debunked Grissom's hypothesis entirely... he's been acting really strange lately. I mean more than usual, because let's face it, the dude is pretty weird. Not in a bad way I mean, just... he's odd. I like that about him though, he's different and not afraid to be. Kinda like me except...

Well, I have better shirts.

But Grissom, he's pretty much the man. I mean, really, he's so smart. Like... crazy smart. I've got game, I don't deny it, but Grissom. Yeah, he pretty much knows everything about everything. It's both impressive and intimidating. Personally, I find it more intimidating than anything else.

He's got a freakin' doctorate. I mean, Ecklie doesn't have one of them... not that I'm saying Ecklie is smart or anything... I just...

I'd really like to learn more about insects, they are pretty fascinating and just damn cool. I'd like to ask him to teach me but... I can't. Something tells me that he wouldn't find that too appealing. Or maybe he would.Who knows? The man is an enigma. A title in itself , I would say. I wonder if he really knows how much we all look up to his intelligence, how much we all admire him. Enigma... a puzzle...

And then there's his issues with Sara. She's my sweetheart, forgive me for saying so but she does something to me that unhinges every fiber of my being, unhinges my DNA. I like her... a lot. And therein lies the problem. Last time I even mentioned my infatuation with the wonder that is Sara Sidle, Grissom put me on a decomp. Not just any decomp, one that had been in a car, in a landfill, in the blazing sun... for nearly a month.

Hey, I'll process a very smelly one for Sara. I just don't like getting on Grissom's bad side. He needs to see me for the good CSI I am. He needs to see me as a person, something other than the lab rat that I used to be.

Anyway, I really like Grissom. Not that I aspire to be him or anything, but it would be nice to learn to be like how he is. Did that make sense? I mean, I want to be able to simply sit down and work it all out in my head. You know, repiece the puzzle and figure it all out just because I'm so damned, argh, smart.

And brave, he's really brave even though he probably wouldn't admit it. Like when he went to give the money to that crazy asshole who kidnapped Nick. The man almost got himself blown to pieces just to try and save Nick. I mean, I'd do it in a second, but I'd likely pee myself before I even got through the doorway.

What else can I say about Grissom?

He's so accepting, unbelievably accepting. He let me get away with a lot... I mean a lot. I should thank him for that at some point...

Also, he's a great teacher. Though he makes us work for our answers. I don't think he's ever given us an answer to a problem unless we've exhausted all avenues of investigation (I sounded pretty damned good there, didn't I?).

I just, you know, want to make him proud. Oh, and I want him to like me. Not too much to ask.

Oh! My Hot Pocket is done!


	6. Sara

This be finished. Finto. Done-ola. Hope you enjoyed.

* * *

"Stop disrupting things, Jeff!" Sara called from the kitchen, dropping a plate in the process of admonishing him. She huffed and bent to pick up the shattered pieces. How ironic, shattered pieces... picking them up. Sara chuckled to herself. 

He laughed deeply and looked over at her. "Give me a break, Sara. I haven't seen you... in a gazillion years. I'm just making a thorough inspection of your... living territory." He balanced himself on his tip toes as he perused her bookshelves.

"Says the zoologist," Sara quipped, tossing a dish cloth at his head. She went about drying the rest of the dishes and placing them in the cupboard while he did nothing to help. Typical.

It had been nearly six years since she had seen her brother. Teaching abroad apparently wasn't conducive to visiting one's sister. Jeffrey smiled over at her and began flipping through some of the forensic journals lying on her coffee table. His feet propped up, head back, he relaxed into the cushions and listened as his sister went about her severely shaky domestic duties.

While Sara was growing up, Jeffrey Sidle had been overseas. It had been his plan that once he left high school to join the Marines. Not only would he receive money to go to college, he would be able to get away from his parents permanently, see the world, get to do exciting things.

The one thing he regretted was leaving his younger sister at home with their parents. That thought plagued him for as long as he was away, so to rid himself of some of the guilt he would send her checks and letters, pictures and trinkets from around the globe. In Japan he'd found the cutest parasol, and though it had cost an arm and a leg to ship, it had arrived on her birthday and she'd awoken to a present. She hadn't gotten one of those in the longest time.

She still had it. It hung on the wall in her bedroom, pretty and green, clashing with her light violet walls.

When Sara was put into foster care, Jeff had returned home but the state had refused him custody. So though she lived with strangers, she would see her brother on weekends and they'd go to ball games, do homework, go running.

Jeff eventually left the Marines and went to college, majoring in Zoology at the University of Arizona. He hated being so far away from his family-his sister-but he had to follow his dream. When he made it out with a graduate degree and fifty thousand dollars in students loans (paid off eventually by the Marines) he wondered what to do with his life. Sara suggested he apply for teaching positions because he'd always been great with her. "I mean," she'd said at one point on a long distance phone call, "You're the reason I mastered my multiplication tables."

In 1995 her brother accepted a position at the American University at Paris.

They sent letters back and forth and though she wanted to do it on her own, Jeff insisted that he help her pay for college if only to make up for all of those years he wasn't there for her.

She went to San Francisco and he wrote a book and he visited her once, Christmas '97. He brought her a necklace and some books and she got him a twelve volume leather-bound set detailing obscure animals in Africa. They ate turkey and stuffing and watched bad movies and laughed-laughed a lot.

He went away and the letters started up again, his a page or two long, hers chapters. She wrote of school and work, how she loved work. Jeff could feel the passion for her profession even through the words on paper and every time he read of her cases, he smiled and shook his head, finding it amusing that his sister could find so much joy in death.

At one point she began to write of a seminar, studying under an "amazing man" and "renowned entomologist." But soon it dissolved into simply talk of him, of a book or an article he had sent her, how grateful that she was for his tutelage. At one point she had written to say that she was leaving San Francisco, possibly for good to go to Las Vegas and work for him.

Jeff had simply raised his brow and shook his head, wondering who would quit their job to follow a teacher they had really only known briefly. Then again, his sister was nothing if not dedicated and if that was what she wanted, then that was what she would eventually get.

A year or two went by and her handwriting became more fluid and she began to write more of the what if's. His sister began to wax poetic and he began to wonder why she was still single. Smart, pretty, passionate, any man would be lucky to have her but for some reason, she was still single. He could never for the life of him figure out why.

Jeff swung his feet off of the table and walked to the kitchen, hip checking Sara out of the way so he could get to the refrigerator. He reached inside and grabbed a bottle of water, hopping up onto the counter, watching her wipe down the table.

"So," he began, taking another chug of the water. "We going out tonight?"

Sara nodded, smiled and tossed the sponge into the sink. "That we are," she replied and disappeared around the corner.

Jeff hopped down from the counter and again walked into the living room. "Huh," he huffed and grabbed a book from the bookcase. It was tattered. He flipped to the front cover; it was some obscure entomology textbook. Finding himself with nothing better to do and hearing Sara turn on the shower, he flipped the cover open only to be confronted with an inscription in frighteningly neat handwriting.

'Sara,' it said. 'This may help to answer some of those questions you're always asking. Grissom.' And that was it. No 'from', no 'love', just Grissom. Just Grissom... that's all he was, all he knew of the man, he was called Grissom. And his sister was receiving... gifts from him. There had to be more to it.

Jeff sat back and cracked the book, reading a passage about centipedes. It was terribly boring, but he just kept on reading, right through the obnoxious sound of the hair dryer and for the fifteen minutes that it took Sara to pick out an outfit. Finally, she emerged from the bedroom and noticed the textbook her brother was perusing.

She smiled and he held it up for her to see and she nodded and walked away when he pointed to the inscription at the beginning.

"Wait, wait," Jeff shouted. "Sis... who is this Grissom guy, anyway?"

Sara smirked, a tiny little flush licking her cheeks. "That's why you're here, bro." Sara joked. Turning to her brother, she grinned. "He's my fiancé, and we're having dinner with him tonight, so move your ass."

Mentor, friend, pseudo father... boss, crush, lover and fiancé. Grissom was all those things... and now he was hers.


End file.
